


Cheers for the Fighting Cocks!

by rosarycrown



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Athlete Dean, Cas/Meg happens very briefly, College AU, Endgame Destiel, F/M, M/M, TW: Drugs, druggie/hipster/really smart Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosarycrown/pseuds/rosarycrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak: Campus Genius, known for his full academic ride and his Religions major. Annoyingly smart and infuriatingly in love with the glory that was illicit substances and easy sex. </p><p>Dean Winchester: Campus athlete - a mechanics major, amazing at football and baseball and ridiculously handsome. Took to an easy lay when it was there, and worked hard enough to pull a B average.</p><p>Two very different boys with only 2 things in common, as far they know - Latin 1 and a distinct habit of taking whatever was offered.</p><p>College!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheers for the Fighting Cocks!

**Author's Note:**

> im not too sure where im going with this, but i have a very strong love of college aus, cas having fun w drugs while still pulling amazing grades, and dean being forced out of his athletic box
> 
> warning: cas smokes and uses meg for her cigs
> 
> !

While it may have been marginally unfair to simply hate Dean Winchester without having properly met him, Castiel hardly let that stop him.

Everyone knew about Dean: scholarship football player, mechanics major, and ridiculously attractive playboy of campus. He was, as far as Castiel knew, the only boy who was as easy to get as he was – and Castiel was easy if you had something to offer that wouldn’t let him remember half of what he did. Despite being a straight-A, academic-scholarship-riding religions major, Castiel had little to no qualms with nearly any substance under the sun. It was nice to drift in and out when there were no tests to study for or essays to write (which did, to his credit, always come first) and he took full advantage of the campus’ diverse groups of druggies with a relaxed ease.

Dean, however, was just notoriously easy. Any girl willing to flash her cleavage and put on a little lipstick was good enough to Dean – at least, that’s what the rumors (and Castiel’s own experience, though he didn’t like to think about how well he knew Dean’s habits) said. The man had been blessed with what may as well have been the face of a Greek God, much to Cas’ displeasure, and took full advantage of the campus’ diverse groups of desperate girls.

Occasionally, Cas’ groups and Dean’s groups overlapped.

Perhaps that was where this story really begins – when the desperate girls are just as eager to try out a few drugs as they are sex, and Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester signed up for the same elective for their first semester of freshmen year: Latin 1.

*************************************************************************************  
The first football game of the year came on a too-hot Friday night.

It was too early in the year for tests and, blessedly, none of Castiel’s professors had assigned any homework that actually needed to be turned in. There were syllabi neatly stacked on his desk (in the only single room in the entire dorm, which was one of the best things he’d gotten in his whole life: no roommate) with their respective textbooks, pencils laying just as neatly, and room set to order. Within a week, it’d be in ruin – but it was nice to send Michael a picture of a clean dorm room just once, so he could pretend the young “genius” of the family wasn’t a complete and utter failure in everything aside from academics.

Sadly, partaking in illegal substances and having a large amount of sex (protected, at least, because he did _not_ want an STD, not knowing what all they did; he had paid just enough attention in Health class to have that lesson burnt into his skull) wasn’t considered a good hobby, and the rest of the family frowned upon what Castiel did outside of his schooling. Factoring in the unkempt, bordering hipster appearance and the permanently messy space, Castiel was hardly ideal when his intellect was ignored

“Everyone has their redeeming feature,” he would tell Michael, shrugging and returning to whatever he had been doing prior to the interruption. “Mine simply covers a lot more negative than most.”

That had serviced as his life motto long and well, and it was with those words of “wisdom” that he slipped into the sea of overly enthusiastic college kids and tried to find someone worth talking to.

(Read as: worth attempting to con out of whatever they had.)

The football team was already stretching and preparing for the game while students from both schools milled around the stadium; some wore the right colors and some didn’t, making half of the bodies unidentifiable to either school. Castiel was another drifter – tighter black jeans and a loose blue button down, just barely staying tucked in, giving no indication to what team he was for. It was easier to pick from the crowd this way because there were no limits to who would take him and give something back. He could be from whatever school he needed to for a little while, just until it was time to head back to his dorm.

Weaving through the crowd was simple enough, judgments being passed in the split seconds someone was in view or in contact: too much perfume, needed to take a shower, creepy grin, friendly face, nervous girl, bored jock. Castiel never really knew what he was labeled as – either nerd or stoner or, perhaps, on the rare occasion someone from his old school saw him, slut.

“Starting quarterback, number 25, Dean Winchester for the fighting Roosters!”

The name sounded vaguely familiar before Castiel’s thoughts were drowned out by loud applause and cheering. He’d heard the name around campus before – idle chatter in the freshmen dorms never ceased - something about how he was a “babe magnet” and “somehow single”, the occasional “I heard he’s a football _god_ ”. Still, his name was only mentioned as often as Castiel’s own (there was a boy from his old school on his floor who just loved to talk about what Castiel did back in high school; the rest of the floor soaked up the gossip about the scholarship boy) and he was little room to judge based on that alone.

He could understand wanting to sleep with a lot of people and utilizing looks to get it. Dean, by rumor, was one of the most attractive men on campus.

Castiel refused to admit he was intrigued and wondering if he’d find Dean in his sort of crowd; the lazy kids who didn’t have to try hard at all and knew it. Winchester sounded a bit like a try hard, if he was so renowned for football – which actually required the participate to be in shape and constantly practicing – and the only try hards Castiel had ever associated with were in his family.

A whistle blew and the game was beginning, much to the cheering crowd’s joy. The milling of students thinned, just barely, as wayward friends found their groups and the vendors distributed popcorn and shitty hot dogs. Most kids had only just begun to form cliques, freshmen relying on older siblings and other awkward kids they had in their classes. The rest of the older kids were already in mass pods, walking together, eating together, and watching together. 

Those were to be left alone: pods of people meant they were all going to stick together. Unless there was a lone one, wandering just outside of the pod’s reach, they were best to be avoided. Pods ganged up on loners, took to verbal and sometimes physical abuse, and never worked out.

So when Castiel came across one, he dodged to the side, hands lazy in his pocket and feet taking him with the flow of his surroundings.

Someone scored a goal – Roosters, so them – and the correct school cheered, the correct school booed.

It was always the same.

Every football game Castiel had bothered to attend went the same – the cheering, the booing, the yelling and salty scent of too many bodies in one place. The scores were different and the outcomes varied (both in points and in if Castiel got anything worthwhile), but the form was the same. He had stopped watching when Michael had stopped coming with him and Gabriel insisted the look around to bum a cig or two, and he didn’t miss it at all.

He had two hours or so before the crowds would disperse, and the lack of interest was enough to make him shift his course to under the bleachers.

Even before he had managed to dodge one particularly menacing looking man and slipped under the bleachers (out of the gaze of the police officer, 10 feet into the crowd and entranced by the game), he let the familiar haze of smoke settle around him. It was only cigs, or so it seemed, but he’d take what he could get.

There were looks; people unsure if he was the right sort of person to let near this stuff, kids who glared he vaguely recognized as sophomores and juniors in his higher classes. They were behind a year and he was ahead – judgment was passed: nerd.

He coined them easier: smokers.

Lazy.

His sort of easy.

Shooting a grin at a dark haired female he knew as a sophomore from the Mythology and Lore class he’d been stuck in, Castiel gave himself a seat in the grass and rested, leaning back on his hands. “Hello.”

“Hello yourself.” She replied, smirking at him and taking a long drag of smoke. The smell was disgusting and heavenly all at once: naturally repulsive, addictively sweet. The girl’s lips were candy red, smooth around the cig he wanted to take from her, and her leather jacket was just barely shining in the light from between the seats above them.

The two boys she sat with – both clearly older – gazed and glared. One he recognized as Alastair, a junior who had run in Castiel on orientation day. The guy was a total dick and assigned to the same guidance counselor and, apparently missing a credit, had been forced to come in on freshmen day. He and Castiel had literally ran into each other (well, Alastair ran into _him_ , but that was a small detail) and the junior had sworn and disappeared shortly after that meeting.

Unfortunately, he seemed to remember, if the particularly venomous glare he gave were to be any indication. His companion looked to be the same age but was more malicious than furious, weirdly yellowish eyes curious and planning.

Castiel shot both a sleazy grin, turning back to the girl who was so much more interested: “Mind if I take a drag?” He widened his eyes as much as possible – sincerity – and used posture to hint he’d do something for it.

Easy bodily linguistic ways to communicate without verbally spelling out intent.

She quirked a brow and leaned forward, puffing smoke into his face. Castiel didn’t flinch – many had tried this on him before, for some reason, thinking this would prove he didn’t know what he was doing and let them send him away.

Instead he breathed in, tasting sweet, bitter nicotine and puffing out carbon dioxide, smirking when the girl gave him an appraising look and his peripheral vision picked up the two boys looking a mix of annoyed and impressed.

“Oooo, so he’s for real. What’d’ya know? You don’t look the type.” She whispered (what may as well have been, anyways, considering the sudden flux of cheers),slipping a little closer and fluttering dark lashes. She was pretty, objectively; pretty enough for a lazy kiss or a quick fuck in the grass if she had something that seemed nice. He wasn’t in the mood for sex from her but was happy to flirt his way into losing his mind for the night, taking advantage of what was offered.

“I get that frequently.” He countered, winking in the dramatic way Gabriel had taught him and being rewarded with a giggle and an offered cigarette from the mouth of the dark haired girl.

The first drag was relief and just barely tasted like the lipstick that was stuck to the cigarette; he exhaled happily and let his eyes slip closed as the first wave of nicotine hit his brain. This was what he’d really come for – the hit before the weekend, where he’d end up bumming to a party and learning the names of the other sluts of the school as they all made their names known. But tonight was just for this, just for the small wave of pleasure.

When he reopened his eyes, the girl’s face was shining, eyes lighting up with devil’s interest. “My name’s Meg, by the way. In case you were curious, sweetie.”

She winked back and he let her take the cigarette from his hand, watched her suck down a little before passing it back. This was horrible for his mouth and he didn’t care, just passing it back and forth until one was gone and her companions finally spoke up while Meg lit another one.

“So, what’s your name?” The yellow-eyed guy asked, taking a break from his own drag to speak. He was relaxed enough, soothed by the pumping chemicals in his brain, but still a threat if only in size. Alastair was watching the exchange lazily, still annoyed with Castiel’s existence.

“Castiel.” He replied, offering a grin and shrugging. “I’m a freshman, before you ask that as well. Very new to this circuit.”

In the distance, the other bleacher cheered.

“I’m Azazel. Nice to meet someone else who got as name fucked as I did that isn’t this idiot.” His thumb jerked towards Alastair and Castiel laughed, rude and low, taking the barely lit cigarette from Meg’s hand before she had taken a drag. She glared; Castiel winked; Azazel snickered; Alastair ignored them all.

He quickly licked at Meg’s neck as she took the cigarette from his right hand, resurfacing from soft skin to give an answer and loving how no one even commented that he had wormed his way into their group so easily. “The same for you.”

They stopped talking then, sharing cigarettes and listening to the crowd flux in volume and emotion. Castiel had managed to get through a few hits before the game ended and people rushed by, heading out for the dorms and the parties.

When the football team ran by, jumping and whooping enthusiastically, Castiel assumed they had won the game.

One player ran by with a grin that was brighter than the rest, sweaty almost-blonde hair spiked from sweat with a helmet in hand. His skin was an olive kind of tan, pretty and prettier where there was sweat sticking and rolling down. Eyes flitted over for maybe a second, blinking and absorbing the scene before turning back to teammates, laughing and yelling more and more.

That was the first time he’d ever seen Dean Winchester.

It was also the last time he’d let Meg jostle him back with a held out cigarette and ignore the handsome face that disappeared into the crowd of hyperactive football players, still nameless and still, for a little while, unimportant.

“Goddamn jocks.” Meg laughed, leaning back and swiping the lit cigarette, smoke billowing into the stiflingly hot air.


End file.
